By John Rhode
First published in The Listener, 2 October 1935
I often wonder what exactly people get out of reading detective stories. I know exactly what I get out of reading them. I get a tremendous stimulus to thought. I think that’s the clearest way of putting it. I don’t start a detective story in the same frame of mind as I should start, say, upon Jane Eyre. I am not on the look-out for literary merit, though, on the other hand, sloppiness of style irritates me profoundly. I set out to pit my wits against the author, and the more the duel is prolonged, the better I like it. I don’t ask for a constant succession of sensational incident and hairbreadth escapes, the type of book which is popularly known as a thriller. I want painstaking workmanship and accurate expression of fact. Given those two essentials, I can thoroughly enjoy myself in trying to unravel the problem before the author divulges it.
I am not at all sure that the majority of readers don’t share these views. It seems to me the only way of explaining the extraordinary popularity which the crime story has achieved in recent years. Most of us are conscious of a certain dullness in our daily lives. Our occupations may be interesting enough in themselves, but their interest is apt to pall when they are pursued day in and day out. We demand then a spice of excitement in our reading. Again, all of us have our own problems, usually of a distressingly prosaic nature.
It is a positive relief to turn to an entirely fictional problem, remote from our own experiences, and to sharpen our blunted wits upon the edges of its ramifications.
I have been told more than once, that the crime story is insidious, that a course of criminal literature must inevitably breed criminal tendencies. But that’s all rubbish. We don’t, fortunately mould ourselves upon the type of fiction which we happen to prefer. Besides, every detective story is an awful warning to the prospective criminal. However ingenious he may be, whatever pains he may take in committing his crime, he always gets found out in the end. And this, I can’t help thinking, is a very salutary lesson. Another thing: in true detective fiction, the actual crime is of secondary importance. To the author, and therefore to the reader as well, it is merely a peg upon which to hang the subtlety of his criminal, and the acuteness of his detective.
The Grandest Game in the World 